I'm Alive
by DibsOnOdair
Summary: "She's trying to keep herself from breaking apart, but frankly, it's no use. She's already broken."  Now an actual full length story.
1. Things That Haunt Her

Pain.

Her every nerve is on fire as she stumbles through the woods. She trips, sprawling to the ground, the damp leaves of the forest pressing into her face, and another knife pierces her ribs. She wretches it out, bringing along a storm of blood, throwing it desperately towards her assiliant, but for the first time in her life, she misses.

Panic.

Fear takes over as she gets back up, tearing through the woods again. Even as she runs, he catches up. She can feel herself falling again, caught on roots and vines that appear out of nowhere. She tangled, weary. She can't get up. Every nerve is screaming in agony when she tries, and her arms can't hold up her weight. She's panting, but there's no point to being quiet. He knows exactly where she is.

Fading.

She can see the blood oozing from her visible wounds, her thigh and ribs, and feel it trickling from her left shoulder. Her hands are streaked with blood, and mud and dirt and grime and blood coat her entire body. The darkness is already encroaching, the weakness that comes from significant blood loss, spots dance before her eyes.

Fading…

She looks up at him, the last face she'll ever see, and he's crying. Tears drip down his cheeks and he holds the knife in a shaky hand, directly over her chest. "I'm so sorry." He chokes out, and then drops the knife. It falls in slow motion, sinking into her chest. She can feel another wave of painwash over her.

Darkness.

She can't see, but she hears the cannon boom. She can hear Cladius Templesmiths voice "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the winner of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games, Cato McClain!" She wants to scream. "I'm still here! I'm still alive!" But it's no use. She can imagine his face, tearstained and covered in blood, her blood, turning towards the sky, smiling through the guilt, the pain. His face, her last hope, all blue eyes and tan skin and a bright smile, so happy during training, so beautiful in the summer sun the day before the reaping. His face, the face of her last hope…

Gone.

The world goes black and silent and Clove jerks up in bed, screaming, sweaty, and tangled in the sheets. "A dream. Just a dream." She tells herself, locking her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth.

No.

Not just a dream.

She lays back in bed, eyes open, twisting the sheets again and again through her fingers, playing out the scene from that tnight. She twists her eyes shut, but all she can see is his face, his eyes when she delivered that death blow. His eyes while she dropped the knife into his chest. He had refused to beg, a Career until the very end. She curls in on herself, drawing her knees toward her chin, and locks her arms around her legs, as if she's trying to keep herself together, to keep the little pieces of the person that she used to be together. She's trying to keep herself from breaking apart, but frankly, it's no use.

She's already broken.

"My name is Clove Mason." Her voice is scratchy from sleep, weak from weariness, and yet she talks on. She's seen former Victors do this occasionally, specifically the mad girl from Four. It helps. "I'm fifteen years old. My home is District Two. I won the Hunger Games. I killed my District partner. Everyone hates me."

* * *

><p>Honestly I'm not sure if this is going to be a full length story or just keep it as a one shot, but I had a burst of inspiration after my AP World test this morning, and about twenty minutes of down time, and this was the result. I hope you enjoyed! :) Please review?<p>

**Forever and always taking requests! Any pairing/character, I'll even do your OC's if you give me adequate information! I just like to write and I don't have any super amazing ideas right now. **


	2. I'm Alive

She wretches her eyes closed. She can't bear to watch. But she can hear the crowd roar, his grunt, the cannon boom, Claudius Templesmith's voice announcing her as the winner. Caesar's hand is gripping hers, and he pulls her to standing, presenting her in front of the cameras again, showing her off to all the cheering fans, showing off the Warrior Princess from District Two, the Victor of the Seventy Fourth Annual Hunger Games. She forces a smirk, but anyone with a brain cell could see she's faking it, could see she's breaking open, flying apart, that nothing can hold her together anymore. She's breathing hard, the dress is too confining and she's going to lose it, she's going to lose it all, she's going to start screaming, here on the stage in front of everyone, and she feels like she's going to puke and god she hopes she won't but she can feel it coming up, and then she's being shoved off the stage, the microphone pulled from her lapel, and Enobaria's standing in front of her, one eyebrow cocked. She loses it then, leaning forward and emptying the contents of her stomach right onto Enobaria's neon orange shoes. Enobaria starts screaming, terrible, terrible, horrible things, but Clove doesn't hear it. She doesn't hear any of it. There's a roaring in her ears that drowns out all else, and she can't fathom why, but there's a pain in her hand and then she can't move.

Screaming.

There's a car door slamming, somewhere near her head.

Screaming. Such terrible, anguished screaming.

A reassuring pat on the knee.

Screaming. A never ending cry that drills into her ears.

Bright lights, flashing above her, entrancing her.

Screaming. It grows only shriller, never ceasing for breath.

Another car door opening.

Screaming. She wonders vaguely if it's her.

Arms under her knees, scooping her up like a broken china doll.

Screaming. She thinks it might be.

Elevator doors slide closed, hiding a sea of Capitol citizens wanting to catch a glimpse of their newest Victor.

Screaming. She can't seem to close her mouth.

Bright fuschia carpet.

Screaming. She can't seem to stop screaming.

She doesn't know if she sleeps, or if she just lays in the bed, screaming herself hoarse for hours, but if she does, it's dreamless. When she sits up again, the light has shifted, and she's back in her old room in the training center, with it's pristine blue walls, huge bed, larger than her whole apartment back home, and bathroom more luxurious than anything she'd ever seen. She twists sheets in her hands, wishing for a knife, a blade, a weapon, anything to end the pain that courses through her veins, the anguish that haunts her every motion.

When she finally moves, its to stumble into the bathroom. She vomits again, this time mostly liquid, and then rests her head on the cool porcelain. She couldn't move if she tried.

She supposes that's how shes found hours later, curled up on the floor next to the toilet, broken. She's tucked back into bed, and hushed voices near her are hissing to one another, combining and never ceasing. She rolls over, pressing her palms flat against her ears, trying to drown them out, but they just drill into her, snaking under her hands, forcing themselves to be heard, to be noticed. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth as if to start screaming again, and then the voices are gone, the hissing has stopped, and she's alone again. She's alone.

"I'm alone." She says hoarsely, testing out her voice. It barely makes a sound, scratchy and weak and broken, but it's hers. And it's confirming what she's known since the hovercraft picked her up, screaming and crying and fighting, wanting nothing more at that moment than to end her life because it just wasn't worth it anymore.

And then there's another voice. A voice so familiar and welcoming that she knows immediately who it is with such certainty that she doesn't bother moving to check. A voice that for years has called out to her, teasing her in it's large, boisterous manner, demanding that it be paid attention to. A voice that has mocked her from across streets for as long as she can remember. A voice that grows low with something she has no words to describe it with when he's around her, just the two of them, alone. A voice that Clove would have killed for.

A voice that Clove killed.

"You've still got me." He laughs and walks out of the shadows, his face, so whole and tan and spotless and perfect and _healthy_, turned straight towards her. "And I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."


	3. The Descent

She sits up quickly, so quickly that her head spins. In that moment, in that strange, unreal, hazy moment, she wonders the stupidest thing one could possibly wonder when the person you killed is standing right in front of you. She wonders when the last time she'd eaten was.

"You're dead."

Cato laughs and takes a few steps closer, his feet brushing on the bright carpet.

"Am I?" She wraps her arms around her legs, pulling herself closer together. She feels smaller than she has in years, with his eyes, bluer than she's ever seen, staring straight down at her. He's smiling slightly, a bemused smirk that she knows all too well.

"I'm going crazy." She starts to rock a little, tearing her eyes away from his. She stares straight at the wall in front of her, surprised that her glare doesn't burn through the thin wall coverings. He moves closer and extends hand as if to touch her face, but she jerks away. "No." She slides off the bed and turns to face him. "Don't touch me. You're not real. You're not here. You're dead." She's hiccupping softly, but no tears fall.

"But I'm right here." He extends his arms, and she looks at him. He's healthier than she's ever seen him, huge and strong and just as intimidating as he's always been. "I'm right here."

She just looks at him. They remain like that for who knows how long, staring at each other in her dim room, while the light fades and the shadows shift. She just watches him stand there, breathing softly as he smiles at her. He doesn't say a word and she remains silent as well. Finally, after what must be hours, she shakes her head and stalks off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

She strips quickly, tossing her clothes into a corner, and turns on the shower. She ignores the automatic settings and manually turns it to as hot as it will go. The scalding water burns her skin, and instinct tells her to move away from it, but instead she sits down, right in the center of its spray. She rocks back and forth, again and again and again, examining every inch of her body, twisting her head to see her back, running her hands over her cheeks and down her arms.

Was it a dream? Were the games some god awful dream? Some artificial horror fabricated by her mind? Could it possibly be that she had never done those things that haunted her? It wasn't possible. It felt too vivid, too real, and _yes_, there it was, the thin line on her calf, the only physical reminder of the games, a scar so deep that even the best of Capitol cures couldn't fix it. She stands, determined, switches off the shower and twists a towel around her body.

"Why are you here?" She marches out into her bedroom, but it's empty. She breaths out in relief. He was just a result of whatever medicine the Capitol had given her to stop her screaming last night. He wasn't real, not as real as she thought. She dresses quickly, in a white shirt and dark red pants, and tries to open the door.

It's locked.

Maybe she isn't quite as sane as she's trying to convince herself that she is. Maybe they keep her confined in here for a reason, like she's dangerous. She is dangerous.

She sits back down on the bed, a little unsure of herself, but she doesn't have to wait long. Only a few minutes pass before the door swings open and Enobaria and Brutus, her mentors, step inside. They close the door behind them, but don't move far from it, and from their stances, Clove is almost certain the Brutus has a knife in his boot, and Enobaria has one shoved in the waistband of her skirt. She grins just a little bit. She's still just as observant as always.

"What have you done to yourself?" Brutus asks, and she glances down to see that her skin is bright red, burning from the heat of her shower. She shakes off the question.

"Why is the door locked?"

"You've been…unstable." Enobaria admonishes. She just nods. She's been called worse.

"They felt it best to keep you in here until you regained a little bit of composure." Brutus adds. Only a nicer way of saying she's insane.

"But you have the interview tonight. There's no getting out of that." Enobaria says disdainfully. Cloves palms break out into a sweat. If she can barely convince herself that she's sane, how is she supposed to convince all of Panem? Her panic is evident on her face, because Enobaria softens a little. "You just have to hold it together for an hour. Just one hour. Then you can go home." Clove shudders a little.

"I'll be fine." She whispers, and Enobaria nods once, sharply, before turning on her heel and marching from the room. Brutus pauses for a moment, looking at her. His expression holds rage that she can't explain, but she puts two and two together quickly. Enobaria would be happy with any Victor, but Brutus always favored Cato. And she killed him. He shakes his head slowly, as if wondering how she managed to take down his warrior, and then walks out of the room. They've never been known to comfort, so it's not unusual that they would make their visit so short.

She flops back on the bed, wanting to cry but unable to. _I feel like crying. _She tells herself. _Why am I not crying? _She turns on her side, pulling her knees into her chest, and she can feel her breathing become rapid. She can't do this. She can't. She can't hold it together in front of that entire audience, she can't answer questions about how it was possible for her to murder her district partner so easily. Her fingers scramble over the blankets, tugging on them, trying to pull them over her head, to block out the world for just a few more minutes, but it won't move.

"You have to pull it together." His voice is just as painful as the first time she heard it.

"Why should I?" She finally tugs the blanket out of his grasp, pulling it over her head.

"Look, I'll be right there. Right by your side, the whole time. I'll help you through it." She can feel his weight settle on the mattress near her feet, but doesn't move.

"This is why you should be the one alive." Her voice is so filled with pain and sadness that he sighs just a little bit, softening. The blanket is pulled slowly off her upper body, and she looks up at him, her eyes dark. He leans forward, stretching out his hand as if wanting to touch her cheek softly, and then pulls back.

"You did exactly what I told you to do. You won." He casts his eyes downward and folds his hands together.

"You got what you wanted." She whispers, her eyes following his movements, committing everything he does to memory. He looks up at her, and she slides her legs out from under the blankets, suddenly engraged. "You got what you wanted!" She screams out, and he flinches back a little. "You're dead, you got exactly what you wanted! And I'm left alone, to go mad by myself and deal with all of this!" She gestures to the room around her, but his eyes never leave her face. "You got exactly what you wanted."

"I'm not going to make you deal with it on your own." He whispers softly, studying her face. "I'm not going to do that. I'm not going to leave you." She crosses her arms over her chest and lies on her side, her back facing him.

"You already did."

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><p>So the longest chapter by far, but I like this one.<p>

People that review make me happy. Very happy. :D


	4. Echoes

Her knees are shaking so badly that she's honestly not sure how she's still standing. The dress wrapped around her is small, just this tight black monstrosity that doesn't leave much to imagination. They've got her in nearly five inch heels too, blood red, with the actual heel being a sharp knife, somehow fabricated so that it does not pierce the floor. Maybe under different circumstances, she'd appreciate her stylist playing up her greatest strength. Right now, however, she's too nervous to even think much about the outfit.

"You'll be fine." He whispers in her ear, and she shivers as his breath ghosts over her skin, raising goosebumps. "I'll talk you through it. Just repeat what I say." She nods, there's too many people around for her to respond out loud and after all her screaming and confinement and insanity, she must appear to be fully in control.

"Stop shaking." He demands, and she forces her body to go still. "Breathe. In, and out. You can do this, Clovely." He uses the pet name he's used for years, and pain wraps around her. His smile falls quickly, but he doesn't have time to say anything else.

"So glad you're feeling better darling!" Her escort, Violet, a perky woman with a much too high voice and bright pink hair wraps her arm around Cloves waist. She doesn't even have time to move, and then Violet is patting her on the cheek and bustling off. Enobaria interrupts before Cato can say anything else.

"It's time!" She grips Clove around the upper arm and drags her off, Clove stumbling in her heels. "Now, like I said, one hour." She wags a finger in Cloves face, showing off the pointed smile that she's famous for. She pushes Clove down onto the Victors chair and then leans close to her ear. "Just one hour, then we have tonight in the Capitol, and we're on the train first thing in the morning." Clove nods and runs a hand up her arm. Some salve cured her self inflicted burns, but the skin is still tender enough. She digs a fingernail into the skin near her elbow, relishing the sharp pain the blooms from the action.

An assistant, wearing a set of bright headphones, turns to make sure she's in her spot and then begins to count down. All the air leaves her lungs, and she looks around frantically for a moment. Caesar Flickman is sitting in his seat, not yet smiling his fake smile, but he's not who she's looking for.

"I'm right here." He says from behind her and she whips around, causing Caesar to glance over at her with his eyebrows raised. Her eyes take in Cato, standing and smiling right behind her. She nods, and then turns back to the interview, smiling at Caesar.

"A bug." She says, casually brushing off her shoulder. He just grins as the music starts and he makes his introduction. They leave off for a minute, no doubt showing a few key images from the games, her reaping, her chariot, her first interview, and, of course, her final kill. She swallows thickly.

"So, Clove, you were awfully skilled with those knives, weren't you?" She hesitates for a moment, but he answeres smoothly, and she moves her lips along with his, as if it's rehearsed.

"Well when you're in the arena, fighting for your life, every blow counts. I didn't want to waste any. I had to be skilled." Caesar just nods. He's used to arrogant Careers.

"Well, the first time we ever spoke, you looked quite different! I have to say, I think I like this one more!" He gestures to her barely-there dress and heels, and she blushes appropriately. She doesn't need his help for this question.

"I think I do too." She feigns arrogance, but she can feel the sweat beading on her neck, matting tendrils of hair to the back of it. He keeps questioning her, simple things that aren't hard to answer, things about back home, what she's going to miss about the Capitol, what her mentoring style is going to be. She gets stuck a little on that one, but Cato helps her out, as he said he would.

"I'll make sure they know how great it is to win. I'll make sure they do what it takes." She echoes him cooly, smirking at the cameras.

"Of course you will. Now, the last question; your final kill." Her palms are clammy, but she can't wipe them off on the dress, it would be too conspicuous. She folds them over each other and takes a deep breath, her stomach reeling. "Did you know the boy personally?"

The boy. That's all he was to the Capitol. The boy. The silly, sword-wieling boy from District Two. The boy who lost the Hunger Games. He didn't matter to them, no more than any of the other tributes who died.

"I did." She croaks out, then clears her throat and nods. "Yes, I did."

"So, what was going through your mind?" She hesitates, unsure of herself, but Cato moves to stand in front of her. He kneels down and she meets his eyes, so blue, staring straight up at her through blonde lashes. He's speaking softly, telling her what her next words should be, and every nerve in her body is telling her to say no, to announce that this is wrong, it's all wrong, she shouldn't be alive, he should. It should have been her who died, he should be the one in the chair right now, smirking and laughing with Caesar, a healthy Victor, alive and well.

But she can't.

So she settles for echoing him, staring straight down at him the whole time. He smiles a little as she says the words, but there's a sadness in his eyes that she can't quite place, a sorrow that has no name, too deep to be fathomable. He smiles as she says the words, but he doesn't mean it.

"I did what it took to win. To come home."

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><p>Not entirely sure how happy I am with this chapter... Hm. I hope everyone who celebrates it has a fantastic Easter, and have a wonderful Sunday to those who don't.<p>

Tell me what you think? Review please? I'll give you cookies? Maybe some lamb stew, if you're lucky. ;)

Have you reviewed? Good. Now go spend some time with your family and eat lots of chocolate. :3


	5. Forgiveness

"Perfect." Enobaria wraps her arms around Clove, but the smaller girl shivers, crossing her bare arms in front of her.

"Can we just go?" She asks, keeping her eyes locked on her mentors face. She doesn't want to see Cato, doesn't want to question his sorrow just yet. She needs time to think about it. Enobaria nods and ushers her out, tossing a delicate shawl at Clove, who catches it gratefully and pulls it around her shoulders. They get into a car and begin to drive. The streetlights overhead flash by quickly. Clove forces her eyes closed against them, her stomach churning.

The darkness only serves to make her more aware of the bile rising to the back of her throat, and she opens her eyes, training them on the shawl wrapped around her. It's a deep red, like blood, gliding over her skin and resting in a puddle in her lap. She tugs it off quickly and deposits it on the floor. She can feel his eyes on her, watching her, gauging her reaction to everything, but she refuses to acknowledge him.

She's ushered out of the car and back into the training center, where, to Clove's relief, they head up to the apartments quickly. She rushes down the hallway immediately, and slams the door behind her, her feet whispering through the carpet as she whisks to the bathroom. She rids herself of the queasiness in her stomach and sits in front of the toilet, her head in her hands.

"You really did do wonderfully." His voice is low, cautious. He senses her vulnerability.

"Why did you let me lie?" Hers, in comparison, hisses angrily out, resonating on the blue tiles of the bathroom floor.

"What?" He settles onto the edge of the huge bathtub, and she glances up at him through her fingers.

"You let me lie." She says again, more slowly. "I didn't kill you because I wanted to win." He flinches at her words, but she continues, like a volcano erupting. She can't contain the words anymore. She can't stop them from spurting from her. "I killed you because you told me to. Because you told me to win."

"I did." He nods, but still looks confused. "You got the better end of the deal, Clovel—"

"Don't!" She screams. "Don't call me that! You have no right to call me that!" She falls silent, panting from the outburst.

"I gave up my life so you could live yours." She waits a long time before she speaks and when she does, she refuses to look up at him.

"But I'm not living. I'm dying, just slowly. I'd rather you have killed me and gotten it over with fast. I don't want this." Her voice is broken.

"I wanted it for you. You deserved to live more than I did. You have some good in you, Clove." She finally risks a glance up at him and discovers that Cato, the brutal, bloody Cato who was infamous for his raw power, is crying on the edge of the bathtub, staring down at a broken shell of a girl who beat him.

"So say it then." She stands up but doesn't move any closer to him, just hisses at him from across the room. "Say it."

He just stares at her.

"Say it!" She yells, furious. "You know what I want to hear. Three words. Eleven letters. Say it! God damn it Cato, say it!" She's standing in front of him, fists clenched, her chest heaving. He sighs, a glint of recognition in his eyes and she knows that he understands what she means. He sighs, his eyes brimming over with tears, and then looks down at his hands.

"I can't. I can't say that." She feels all the rage draining from her in one quick exhalation of air, and she nods once.

"I knew it." She leaves him behind her crying on the side of the bathtub and curls up in bed, clutching her knees as if the nightmares would overlook her if she took up less space.

Time passes. How much, Clove would never be able to say. She only comes back into recognition when she hears his voice, soft and broken by sobs, call out to her from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>So, kind of a filler chapter, but it's important later on. Thank you lovelies for reading, and it would be even lovelier (is that a word?) if you reviewed.<p>

_**Also: I'm doing my second SYOT, so if you're interested in submitting a MALE tribute, please please please check that out! I have some awesome girls and not a SINGLE boy! **_


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